At last she has spoken! The woman has overcome the princess. Lauzun stands before her with downcast eyes—a victim, as it seems, to his own perfection. The time was now come that he must coquet no more. Placing his hand on his heart, he made her a deep obeisance. "But, madame, I am only a Gascon gentleman. None but a sovereign is a fit consort for your highness." "I will make you a prince, Count," rejoins she, with a tender look. "I will create you Duc de Montpensier. I have wealth and dignities; both are yours." Her eyes sparkle, her cheeks burn. An air of mingled power, pride, love, and exultation overspreads her face. Her tall figure is raised to its full height: she clasps the hand of Lauzun; he raises it to his lips. "Your highness overwhelms me," he whispers, with genuine feeling. For an instant, Lauzun—the cold, heartless Lauzun—felt her influence. Could he really love this exalted lady, who had thus honoured him? He looks fixedly into her face, now transfigured by the deep passions that stirred her inmost soul. Could he love her? He, a penniless cadet, of an insignificant name? Etiquette set at defiance, a princess at his feet, enormous wealth, a royal dukedom in his grasp! Could he love her?—For a moment a rush of wild thoughts whirl through his brain. She worships him. He could make her life a long enchantment. He was about to kneel to her, to thank her, even to press her in his arms. But he stops and steadies himself. No—she is too old; wrinkles gather about her mouth, her fair hair is partly grey, the bloom has long faded from her cheeks, the fire of youth from her eye. What is she but an old maid, inflamed by a furious passion for a man greatly younger than herself? Should he, the brilliant Lauzun, burn incense on the altar of such an idol? Impossible. He would be the laughing-stock of the Court! His lively imagination grasps the whole situation in an instant. Lauzun's baser nature conquered. The momentary warmth fades out of his heart for ever. He heaves a sigh of relief. "Monsieur de Lauzun," says Mademoiselle, far too much occupied with her own raptures to heed or to understand what was passing in his mind, "you sigh. Fear nothing; I will obtain his Majesty's permission for our speedy marriage." Would Louis XIV. consent to the marriage of his cousin-german with a simple gentleman? Would Madame de Montespan, with whom Lauzun had intrigued, fall into this arrangement, or would she use her all-powerful influence against it? These are awful questions. Lauzun's blood ran cold when he thought of it. Madame de Montespan is treacherous, and as vindictive and clever as himself. Louvois, too, the minister, is his enemy. Mademoiselle, however, ignorant of these dangers, acted without a moment's hesitation. She wrote a long letter to the King, announcing her choice, and asking for his consent. Lauzun saw and approved the letter. It was then confided to Bontemps, who carried it to his Majesty.